


The Bones of a Miracle

by mediocrityatbest



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fae, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Death, Dwarves, Elves, Fae & Fairies, Fae Magic, Gen, Loss of family members, Magic, Magic-Users, Murder, Other, Royalty, and it's from the song Waiting For Love by Avicii, eventually there will be violence, not of any major characters though, the title is the bones of a miracle
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-30
Updated: 2020-08-18
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:54:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25603156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mediocrityatbest/pseuds/mediocrityatbest
Summary: Roman Pyre is called upon to retrieve the missing Crown Prince by the rulers of Aerewadal, one of the strongest kindgoms in the world. He takes the job with the promise of more money than he could ever hope to spend and finally, at long last, peace. How hard could it be to find one Prince?Turns out, not that hard. But bringing him back and getting paid? That's another problem entirely.
Relationships: Anxiety | Virgil Sanders & Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders, Anxiety | Virgil Sanders & Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders & Deceit | Janus Sanders, Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders & Logic | Logan Sanders, Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders & Logic | Logan Sanders & Morality | Patton Sanders, Platonic DLAMPR
Comments: 1
Kudos: 12





	1. Just Doing What We're Told

**Author's Note:**

> Story title from Avicii's song Waiting For Love.  
> Chapter title from OneRepublic's song Counting Stars.
> 
> I have this whole thing plotted out now, it's just a matter of getting it all down into pretty words instead of the chaotic mess that planning is. I will endeavour to do my best to get everything out to you guys in a timely fashion!
> 
> Enjoy!

Roman had been resting after his latest mission, allowing his tailors to fix his clothes and his beauticians to work their magic on his wrecked hair and nails, and giving his body the much needed time to heal the bruises and cuts he’d gotten for his efforts.

All in all, Roman had _very much_ been looking forward to having some down time. He’d had grand plans of gorging himself on whatever exotic fruits happened to coming in to the ports and attending lavish plays. Roman had even managed to secure enough time off to attend a masked ball at the end of the month, something that he rarely ever got the time to do.

But when the Queen requests your presence at the castle immediately, and instructs that you be ready for hard travel? You don’t delay.

Roman’s pack is filled with his clothes and food, money and the tools necessitated by the less... _respected_ side of his profession. He has no idea what the monarchs might want with him or his skill set, but it’s best to come prepared, and they wanted whatever this was about dealt with quickly, so it would undoubtedly be better if he doesn’t have to come back home for his supplies.

Resisting the urge to curse under his breath from the pace they  are traveling at, Roman leans forward in the carriage and gets the attention of the courier sent to retrieve him. The kid is young, barely more than fourteen if Roman were to hazard a guess. They have a nervous air about them, and Roman is sure this is their first assignment on their own, no mentor to give them a nudge in the right direction.

“You know,” he says, “the Queen’s message seemed pretty urgent. I could get to the castle quicker on my own.”

The kid, Ellie or El or Leo, looks down at their frantically tapping fingers and shrugs. Their gray shirt hangs loose on their body, billowing out around the much more snug black vest. “Their Majesties insisted that I escort you there, sir. The task they have for you is of the highest importance and they wish to ensure that you arrive safely as well as swiftly.”

“What _is_ this task meant to be?” Roman asks, deciding against mentioning that he is more than capable of taking care of himself and he’s not sure what help in that regard this kid could give him, besides. The kid darts a look at him but looks away just as quickly; they know something, and they’re not allowed to say.

“Their Majesties did not deign to inform me, sir.”

“Say what you will,” Roman mutters. He leans his chin on his fist. “I’m sure I’ll find out soon enough.”

The carriage is hot and even though the windows are open, barely any wind makes its way inside to air out the space. While he dislikes the heat, uncomfortable as it, Roman is just thankful that it’s not humid. Humidity makes his already kinky hair unbearably frizzy and he’s not sure he’d be able to handle another stint on the job while fighting to keep his hair out of the way, too.

Roman wonders, on the hours long journey, why the Queen and Monarch would have sent someone as young and untried as the courier before him. He’s high priority from the wording of the message alone, and he’s one of the best at what he does—perhaps the best, if one is looking only for human options, which the monarchs seem to be doing. But this kid is skinny as a skeleton and has the courage of a skittish street cat. Perhaps they make up for it in wit, but Roman is hard pressed to believe that they alone could make the difference in an ambush or duel.

Still, who is Roman to question royalty? They have enough information on him to put him to death without a trial and people would party in the streets for it. It’s a wonder, really, that they haven’t sent for him before now to take care of him and the threat he poses. It’s stranger still that they would want him for such an important and sensitive mission that he’s not even allowed to know what it is until they reach the castle. Then, a secret ‘mission’ would be the perfect excuse to send for him and have him walk willingly into his own execution.

Roman discreetly checks his bag for all of his things. It’s best to be prepared; he’d learned that lesson the hard way.

“Any siblings?” the courier suddenly asks, dragging Roman from his thoughts. His eyes flick over them.

“No,” he says. “I was the sole ruler of my kingdom, as a child. Rather liked it that way.” They snort indelicately.

“I imagine that would have been exciting,” they say. “I had twelve siblings growing up and I was younger than most of them. I never got to be the ruler of anything.”

Roman whistles appreciatively. “That must have been tough.”

“Nah. Not much more than anything else.” Their voice is soft and unobtrusive. They settle back onto the bench and adjust their skirt. It flares slightly and goes nearly to the tops of their boots, much sturdier and more well-worn than any other article of clothing they’re wearing. Being a servant trusted by the Queen herself should be a position well-paid enough that they’d be able to afford decent boots. This pair is scratched and scuffed, mud caking the soles. Roman has rarely had shoes in such bad condition, even when he spent months tracking down an on-the-run noble and had to do his own repairs.

The courier doesn’t seem much inclined to continue the conversation, and Roman is more than happy to rest. He stretches across his bench and shuts his eyes. It’s going to be a long trip in this heat.

  
  


It takes two days that feels more like four to get to the castle. They were forced to stay the night at an inn that Roman wouldn’t have slept at even _before_ he made a name for himself here. It didn’t even have a toilet. There was a hole behind some bushes they were expected to use.

It is an experience that Roman is not looking to repeat.

The courier leads Roman in through the back. There’s no one around to see them except for mice and spiders. There’s not even a guard placed here. He hadn’t been expecting to enter the castle to the sound of raucous applause and a path of rose petals, but this is so far removed from even the other weirdness that Roman encounters on a daily basis that he’s almost taken aback.

His interest is piqued. Whatever the Queen wants him for, she doesn’t want anyone to know about it. Or to know that Roman is involved.

This is going to pay well. Roman can feel it.

“We wait here.” The courier comes to a stop near the doors. The room they’re in is big and has golden fixtures on the walls that contain brightly burning candles. There are other, floating lights and a few sconces emanating shades of blue and purple that Roman assumes are magically imbued. It doesn’t take the most skilled hand to form colored light, but it does take a regular upkeep. An easy way to infiltrate the castle, Roman notes. Give the right person food poisoning and show up in their place. Of course, you’d have to know the layout of the castle to do anything, but as long as he could find the throne room, he’d be able to orient himself. It’s just a matter of finding the-

All the colored lights flicker to searing white for a moment, and the courier moves forward and yanks open the door. Roman has to stoop slightly to follow them in. Though the kid is short enough to go through without trouble, the door can only be five and a half feet tall, if that, and while Roman isn't extraordinarily tall, he is taller than that. That means it’s probably a hidden servants’ entrance. And if they’re willing to show someone as dangerous as Roman a weakness like that...

“Your Majesties,” the courier says, bowing low. Roman does a quick survey of the room while the attention isn’t on him. Doors, curtains, tapestries, pillars, chairs. But something’s off. There’s something missing. Roman’s just not quite sure what it is.

Then it hits him: there are no guards.

“Elliott,” says the Queen. “Thank you for bringing him in one piece.” Roman schools his face so that it doesn’t show his shock; the kid is on a first-name basis with the Queen. They’re important here.

The Queen and her spouse swivel to look at Roman. He steps forward and bows gallantly.

“Roman Pyre. At your services, Majesties.”

“Mr. Pyre,” the Monarch says. They glance over his clothes. Roman doesn’t glower, though it’s a close thing. He had worn the best suit he had left after his last job, a dark red one with gold highlights and a dramatically flared cape. It wasn’t much, but they were lucky Roman hadn’t simply come in his night clothes with the way he was rushed from his own home.

“That is a fine suit, Mr. Pyre,” the Queen murmurs. She doesn’t look at his clothes, instead staring him in the face. Well. Two can play at that game.

“Thank you, your Majesty.” He casts an obvious, critical eye over her own wardrobe: a golden gown with purple beading and lace. There’s the sheath of a dagger hidden within the purple lacing that goes up the front. “I would be more than happy to recommend the tailor to you.” The Queen stiffens in her seat. Behind her, in the place a guard would usually stand, Elliott’s eyes go wide with shock at the slight. Roman refuses to lower his head or wipe the pleasant smile off his face.

“Perhaps you should,” she says, but the words aren’t genuine. She stares at Roman. On either side, her courier and spouse do too. Roman stares back, weathering the silence patiently. He knows the power of forcing someone to talk first, and after all he’s been through, he’s not going to allow anyone that.

The minutes tick by, each slower than the last, as everyone silently demands someone else talk first. And then, blessedly, there is a knock at the main entrance, a pair of grand, gleaming doors that reach  to twelve feet high. Elliott slips around the Queen’s chair without a word and goes to the doors. They look heavy enough that it would take a team to open them, but the slip of a child does it with ease. Enchanted, Roman thinks. While it’s not unusual for castles to be filled to the brim with charms and enchantments, it is certainly interesting to see who is permitted through them.

Roman doubts there’s a place in the castle that Elliott can’t go.

There’s a muffled conversation at the door and Elliott sticks an arm out, quickly receiving something from whoever is on the other side. They shut the door and rush back to the thrones, offering the Queen a scroll. Roman watches with interest as she reads it, her eyebrows drawing together just slightly.

She releases a sigh through her nose and passes the scroll to her spouse. They read it quickly. Unlike the Queen, they seem energized by its contents, leaning toward her once they finish and whispering. She hums at their words, and finally resigns herself to losing.

“Mr. Pyre,” she says. Roman bows his head. “As you may have gathered, this is not a social call. To be candid with you, I would rather have you thrown in the dungeon right this second to await your trial and, once you are found guilty of your innumerable crimes, both against this crown and foreign empires, sentence you to death than be forced to deal with you now. There have been many times, over the years, that I considered doing just that, to rid myself and my bloodline of your vexing behaviors. However.” The Queen pauses here. Roman stands tall, arms loose and knees ready. His posture is as relaxed as he can feasibly force it, and he takes stock of all of his supplies and exits. Of course, it isn’t the least bit surprising to hear that the Queen has considered killing him before. That is only to be expected. It is worrying that she is openly admitting it. That isn’t the kind of thing citizens like to hear about their rulers. That she is saying it means something.

“How-ev-er,” the Queen says again. She smiles at him. Roman fights the urge to shiver and bares his teeth back at her, “we haven’t had you arrested yet, despite all the evidence piling up. Do you know why that is?”

“I’m just too handsome for the chopping block?” Roman suggests.

The Queen ignores him. “We always knew we might have a need for you. And so we do. Of course, there are people in this world more skilled than you at your... _profession_. However, most of them are much less reputable than even you and tend to bring back their quarries in poor condition. So, as much as I would like to have you thrown in the dungeon to never again see the light of day...you’re the best option. Even if you _are_ so Fae.” His cheeks flame as he clenches his hands into fists. He can feel it all the way to the points of his ears, knows that his eyes have taken on a red tinge, as they always do when someone feels the need to point out Roman’s past. He debates the merits, just for a moment, of pulling her own dagger on her and slitting her throat with it. There are no guards in the room to stop him.

Unfortunately, Roman has more self control than that.

“ It’s almost like you’re trying to make me not  assist you,” he says, carefully modulating his voice. The Queen smirks like she wants him to say no, to test her.

“We have compensation for your successful efforts,” cuts in the Monarch. They grab the Queen’s hand with theirs and lean toward Roman. “Enough that you’ll be living the rest of your days in comfort. Along with the reassurance that all of your crimes and misdeeds in the past will be forgiven with a royal pardon.”

“How much money?” Roman asks, down to business now because this is what he’s here for. Roman lives for the money that makes his life that much easier. The pardon is nice too, don’t get things misconstrued, but it won’t matter for long. He’ll go right back to his unsavory profession and begin racking up disdain and wanted posters again.

The sum they name is astronomical. Roman will never have to take another job again. His mouth dries at the thought. Maybe he won’t be on anymore wanted posters.

“What would you have me do?”

“Find our son,” the Monarch says, and when they say it, both rulers look like they’re begging.

  
  


Roman sits at a table in a separate room. It looks like some sort of private dining room—the kind that maybe only the Queen and Monarch dine in. Despite the Queen’s obvious distaste for him, much of the castle has been exposed to him. That’s a dangerous thing. Roman knows that they must be serious about this.

The Queen sits across from him, a file in her hands. The courier stands at her elbow, a few more documents held in their arms. Roman glances over the papers, curious. It’s not as much as it could be, but to find someone like the Prince, Roman is going to need all the help he can get.

The Prince is notorious for getting away from his guards to traipse through the kingdom without protection and has a bad habit of disappearing even within the castle, where no one can find him. He’s good at disappearing, and at not being found.

“Here.” The Monarch drops another stack of paper before Roman. He begins leafing through them as the Monarch takes their seat.

“Four days ago,” the Queen begins. Roman drops the papers back to look at her, “our son disappeared.”

“Disappeared how?” Roman asks. The Queen shares a look with the Monarch. There’s a moment of silence before the Queen answers.

“He left in the night, and we believe he was looking for something. We’ve not heard from him since.”

“You mean to tell me that your adult son voluntarily left for a reason you know and you want me to drag him back?” The glare the Queen shoots him is absolutely vicious. If Roman were any less accustomed to violence and hatred, he would quiver under that look.

“There are many kingdoms that would take great interest in knowing the Heir to Aerewadal is currently somewhere in the country, unprotected,” the Monarch says. They motion to the papers sitting on the table. The Queen passes the folder over. It’s filled with descriptions of countries, leaders, and independent parties that have a bone to pick with the Wedian family. Roman raises his eyebrows, impressed. He’s never seen that level of hatred, all laid out.

“Where is this quest meant to take him?”

“Through Wudour Forest,” the Queen says. “And should that not yield the results he wants, all the way to the Fae Lands in the east.” She pauses, as though waiting for some input from Roman. He stays quiet. “He doesn’t have the training to defend himself from such...attacks as he is likely to face there. He does not have magic, nor does he have appropriate training to deal with people as particular as the Fae.

“We believe he is going after this.” Another page falls in front of Roman. There’s a chest depicted, with swirling filigree and delicate latches. “It is said to contain the Book of Cuilezia, the most powerful spellbook in the world.”

“It’s a myth,” Roman says. He drags his eyes away from the drawing to examine the monarchs. “He does know that nothing like that exists, doesn’t he?”

“He’s going after it,” the Monarch says. They look over Roman. “Do you understand the gravity of this situation?” Roman nods once. “We believe that he’s heading straight for Wudour Forest. We’ve sent guards after him, but he’s talented at escaping detection.” They rub a hand down the side of their face. Roman can see the stress that this has caused them, and he winces. “These papers contain everything we know about the path there, how we think he’s likely to travel, and any other information we thought would be helpful. There’s a room set up for you here for tonight, so you can review the information, eat, and rest.”

“You’ll tomorrow morning,“ the Queen orders. “Get our son back.”

“You have my word, your Majesty.” Roman stands and bows deeply to them. The Queen waves a hand and Elliot steps forward to gather up the files.

They escort Roman to a distant room in the castle. The hall it’s in is vacant and dusty, like it hasn’t seen a good cleaning in years, but the room itself is in good condition. There’s a soft, squishy comforter on the most luxurious mattress Roman has ever felt. There’s a plethora of candelabras and sconces around the room that Elliott lights by hand. It leaves the room glowing brightly, in perfectly natural light. Roman feels almost at home.

“Breakfast will be sent for you in the morning,” they say. “You are expected to be off as soon as possible. The quicker you get back with the Prince, the better.” They turn to leave.

“How old are you?” Roman asks. Well, he blurts it. He’s curious about their station here. About what could get them in so close with the Queen.

Elliott turns to eye him. They must not think he has any unfavorable motivations because they eventually softly say, “Nineteen.” Roman chokes on air. _Nineteen!_ They look like a child!

“You must have lived here a long time, then. To be so young and so trusted.”

“I know my way around,” Elliott says with a smile, which isn’t an answer. Roman sighs. “Sleep, sir. You’ll need it to find the Prince. He’s fast on his feet and knows a thing or two about covering up his trail.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Roman mutters. He hesitates, but Elliott is still waiting in his room so he figures asking a few more questions won’t be too out of line. “You wouldn’t be able to give me any other pointers about the Prince, would you? The more I know, the quicker I can find him.”

“He’s determined,” Elliott says. They pause, seeming to struggle for the words before continuing. “He has a goal, and not getting caught before he completes his task is likely part of it.”

“What’s his goal?” Roman prods.

“The chest containing the Book of Cuilezia,” Elliott says. Their eyes are sharp despite their voice remaining quiet and hesitant. “The Queen showed you a picture of it.”

“Of course,” Roman says, “and a noble goal it is. But there isn’t anything else he may be looking for? Something that, perhaps, he recently discovered and decided he wanted?”

“No,” Elliott says, voice dropping ever so slightly. There’s a silence. “Not that I’m aware of, sir. I’m not privy to all the goings-on of the castle.”

“I’m sure,” Roman mutters under his breath. “Do you know what led him to believe the chest is located in Wudour?”

“He believes the Fae have it,” Elliott says. “A merchant recently came through, bearing weapons of Fae and Elvish make. She swore that she saw the chest with some of the most advanced Fae Healers there are.”

“She didn’t say what she was doing in the company of such esteemed magic users, did she?”

“She neglected to mention that.” Roman snorts and shakes his head. The courier waits a moment. “If that’s all, I’ll leave you to your reading, sir.”

“Yes, I suppose that’s all. You’ve been helpful,” Roman says. “Thank you.” They slip out the door. Roman collapses onto the bed and the stack of carefully clipped together papers bounces up beside him.

“This castle,” Roman says to the papers, “is full of the most gods awful liars I have ever seen.” The papers say nothing back and, groaning, Roman rolls to his stomach, gathers them close, and begins to read.

  
  


Roman is completely packed the next morning when his breakfast arrives. The servant says nothing to him, simply sets the tray on the desk and bows out of the room. Roman picks over the food; they’re obviously not too worried about feeding him anything of quality. The gray-ish mush is slimy and the roll is hard enough to make his teeth hurt.

Perhaps they’re trying to run him out of the castle so that he’ll get a quicker start. At least the apple he has is good, fresh and wormless. It’s not the worst food he’s ever been served.

Ten minutes later, a knock sounds at the door. Roman opens it to see the same servant as before.

“Are you ready to leave, sir?”

“But of course,” Roman says, slinging his pack over his shoulder and grinning. “Lead the way.”

Without another word, the servant turns and begins walking. Roman stays a few paces behind, taking in all the halls they passed. It would be good to know the palace’s layout in case he ever got a job that brought him within it.

If he did, he’d have to ransack the kitchen while he was at it and see what kind of delicacies they were withholding from him. He was sure the rulers didn’t eat like that, and he’s curious to see what they _do_ have.

They come out into the misty gray morning. The sun still hasn’t fully risen yet, but the birds are just beginning to sing in the trees. It’s as beautiful as the music played by the Royal Orchestra at the Royals’ and Nobles’ birthdays. The only good thing about the rulers getting another year older is the music accompanying it.

The stables come up before them, and Roman takes a few quick steps to catch up to his guide. “Why are we going to the stables?”

“Their Majesty said to give you one of the fastest horses in the stable, Drukha, to aid you in your travels, sir.”

“How thoughtful,” Roman says. He steps up to the stall door the servant stops at and peers in. The horse staring back at him has a shimmering black-brown coat and stands at least sixteen hands. As soon as she sees him, she whinnies and rears back on her legs to stomp at him. Roman lurches back from the door just as the horse’s hooves make contact. The gates tremble.

“She’s a little skittish,” the servant says. Roman stands far back as the horse is calmed and then let out of the stall. He follows the horse back out of the stable and into the light. She’s already been tacked up.

“Are you sure this isn’t a hellsfoot?” Roman remarks. The horse’s eyes are rolling around her head like she’s been possessed and she stomps her hooves every time Roman gets too close. In the sun, her coat almost looks like liquid more than hair, which is the same texture that the creatures corrupted by magic have.

“There’s not been any dark magic done around the horses, sir.” Roman edges close enough to take the reins, and Drukha screams at him again. “She's likely on edge on account-a the fact you’re Fae.” Roman tightens his grip on the reins and flushes to the tips of his ears, but doesn’t say anything in response. “She’s fast, and strong. She’ll serve you well, sir. Just needs some time to acclimate.”

“Tell their Majesties thank you from me,” Roman says quietly. He manages to tie his pack to the horse without getting a chunk taken out of his leg and then hops on. The horse prances around for a moment, attempting to bite his legs, but Roman eventually gets her somewhat under control. With one last nod to the servant, he turns the horse and sets off.

The streets, once Roman enters them, are crowded. People mill around and carriages trundle through, slow to avoid the citizens walking out into the streets without a care in the world. It would be quicker if he could just walk, but he’d regret leaving Drukha behind once he got to the forest. As much as she may act like a hellsfoot in the meantime and cause more problems than not.

Though, she doesn't seem to be bothered by the crowd or noise of the market. Not easily spooked, then. She'd just have to get used to him and understand who would be calling the shots.

~~~~~

Logan watches passively as the man in the tree curses colorfully. The branch he's balanced precariously on is perhaps thirty feet off the ground and creaking dangerously. A fall from that height could kill him, though it likely won't. He'll undoubtedly be hurt if he doesn't come to his senses and make his way down from the tree, and Logan has a suspicion that the man won't come down if he's told to or not.

But Logan is perfectly content to watch and see where this leads. He has no stakes in the situation, so regardless of what the man does, Logan will be fine.

(Though, he was supposed to have been finished collecting his berries well over an hour ago, now. He's been watching the eclectic, bizarrely dressed man since he'd heard him crashing through the woods. There seemed to be no rhyme or reason to his actions beyond his apparent inability to keep a singular goal in mind for longer than ten minutes. His current excursion started as an attempt to get a higher vantage to figure out where he was, but he's been chasing a bird up the tree for the better part of fifteen minutes. The bird, for their part, seemed perturbed by the intruder and continually squawked at him to get down.)

Instead of coming down the tree, the man jumps from the branch he's on and barely manages to get his arms around another. With a deafening _crack_ , the previous branch launches off the tree and comes crashing to the ground feet before Logan. The man just keeps dangling from the new branch, legs kicking wildly beneath, laughing. Logan watches him with rapt attention. He's never seen someone so absolutely unworried about death or injury, let alone this far into the woods and alone.

"Oh, shitty fucking dicks," the man says, and the branch he's holding on to lets out an ear-splitting shriek just before it falls off the tree.

And takes the man with it.

He doesn't make any noise upon impact with the ground and Logan wonders if, like with every other part of his appearance and general disposition, he's defied the odds and died.

Fortunately (or unfortunately, depending on who you are), upon closer inspection Logan can see that he's still very much breathing. His leg, however, should not be bending at the angle that it is, nor in the place that it is.

And while Logan will concede that, to some degree, all life is sacred and that senseless killing is generally a bad thing, he has to almost wish that the man had ended up dead. If he died, there would be nothing Logan could do about his unfortunate state. As it is, he is merely hurt and desperately in need of help. A broken leg in this forest at this time of day will eventually lead to death or at least further injury, and Logan cannot abide by such things in his forest.

Sighing, Logan secures his pack of berries and roots over his back and and  drags the man up. He's heavy , someone who probably hasn't done much physical work in his life but has had enough access to food. Not a commoner, and that's especially evident with the way he's dressed. The clothes themselves don't match at all, almost as if someone simply had to wear what was there and couldn't create a cohesive outfit, the they're made out of expensive fabrics (not the most luxurious, like silk imported from a people somewhere to the north, but good quality nonetheless) that aren't manufactured with the wear-and-tear of the forest in mind.

He's likely some spoiled noble's son who ought to know better than to go gallivanting around the forest alone and ill-equipped. Logan has no love for the nobles, no matter their land, but perhaps he can make a copper or two from helping this man and buy something new for his cottage. He's been meaning to buy some new curtains with star patterns on them for some time.

Logan tosses the man over a shoulder and sets off for home. It's not too far of a walk, and the man isn't much of a burden to carry. And the leg, while it will take some time to heal, won't be too much work either. Maybe this will be a good thing. Maybe it will work out in Logan's favor.

Anyway, how much work can one person be?


	2. Trying To Choose Which Way To Go

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from World Gone Mad by Bastille

Remus can't move his leg.

He's been trying for the better part of an hour, while still pretending to be asleep so the swampwitch wouldn't know he's woken and won't see their untimely death coming at Remus' hands. Unfortunately, that plan is seeming less and less likely because his leg won't move, but there is an ache starting to build in his joints, like he'd taken a bad landing.

"Are you going to get up?" The swampwitch asks, back still to Remus. Remus lets out a particularly loud snore, but the swampwitch merely sighs. "I know that you've been trying to move for nearly an hour now. You may as well just admit that you're awake and ask why you can't."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Remus answers dutifully. "But since you're offering, we can have a conversation while I'm asleep." He forces himself into a sitting position and tilts his head around to crack his neck. The swampwitch shudders from their station at what looked like a sink and finally turns to face Remus.

"This is not how sleep talking works," they say. Remus shrugs.

"Maybe not for you. I've done this my whole life. Once, I stole a dragon from the aerie and didn't even realize it had happened until I woke up on fire."

"I find that...highly unlikely." The swampwitch examines Remus. "Regardless, I am sure you have queries for me, and I will endeavour to answer what I can to the best of my ability. Let's begin."

"Why is your hair doing that?" he asks. They stiffen slightly and run their hands through their hair, as though checking for something. Finding only the blond strands on their head, they furrow their brow in confusion.

"My hair is not doing anything," they say.

"Nah, I'm pretty sure it is. Look." Remus grabs a piece of his own curly hair and drops it. Then he points at the swampwitch. "Your hair is sticking out like you rubbed your head in dragon shit."

The swampwitch sputters. "I assure you, I have done no such thing." But they do pat their hair again.

"Whatever." He watches as the swampwitch comes to stand in front of him. "What's your name?"

"You may call me...Star," the swampwitch says. "He/him pronouns are preferred. And you?"

"Remus," Remus says. "I've been called a he and a him since I was born."

"You do realize that if I were Fae, you would have just given me your name, don't you." Star's voice is completely monotone, despite the statement being phrased like a question.

"I've always wondered what those kinky fuckers would want to do with me," Remus says. he grins. Star doesn't return the gesture. "What's in the jar?" Remus asks, launching himself off the bed with only the use of one leg. He snatches at a jar full of a slimey, acid-green substance and tilts it over his hand. It doesn't fall out, but Star does make an interesting noise and yanks the jar out of his hand.

"That is _poison_ that is absorbed _through the skin_ , you _abosulte moron_ ," he says, glaring. Remus positively cackles.

"Spicey."

"It is _not_!" Star shouts, cradling the poison to his chest like a kid. Remus thinks this may just be his sort of person.

"So you've eaten it?"

"No!"

"Then how do you know it's not?"

"I-you-AUGH!" Star reaches back blindly and chucks a book at Remus. Remus takes it full in the face and collapses back against the wall.

"Harder, daddy," he says, wriggling his hips. Star stares, open-mouthed and not speaking. Then, he spins on a heel and walks right out the door. Remus laughs loudly after him.

Star is gone for one minute, two, three four five, and by the time he finally returns home, Remus has managed to break three different knives in an attempt to get the weird, oddly thick thing off of his leg.

"What are you doing?" Star says, voice pitching unevenly.

"This is why I can't move my leg," Remus says, as though it's obvious. "So I'm getting rid of it." He says. As thought it's. Obvious.

"That is the only thing keeping you from being in unbearable agony," Star says, "and also the only thing that will ensure your leg heals correctly. Stop trying to remove it before you put hours of valuable spellwork to waste."

"Aw, you did all that for me?" Remus asks, voice high and shrieky. Star winces.

"You know what, I am about to remove it myself. Perhaps you shattered your ankle by design of some Deity and the pain was meant to be your punishment for existing. And now my punishment for helping you is having to put up with you."

"People have said that I'm a handful," Remus says, nodding. He glances around until he sees another knife. "Ooh!" He goes for it, intent on getting the shit off his leg, but Star interrupts him and manhandles him back to the couch. Remus glares at him.

"If you take off the cast, all of the spells I performed to ensure a quick and correct recovery will _also_ come off, and then you will be stuck here for months until your leg has healed enough naturally for you to go back to wherever it is you came from and let your family know that you're not dead." He grabs Remus' hands and roughly shoves them onto the bed. "Now, refrain from what you're doing and allow yourself to heal in a timely manner."

"I never did like deadlines," Remus muses and, with one last stab, cracks the white stuff off of his leg. He howls when it comes off, like a rabid animal, and Star rushes over to him, fingers already sparking with the beginnings of a spell.

Finally, finally, the pain stops. Remus examines the now green thing on his leg. It is somehow even bulkier than the last one. It is also glowing faintly.

"For the love of Penelope, just stop," Star exclaims, smacking Remus' hand away again.

"Penelope?" Remus asks.

"The deity of healing, among other things. They're one of the Old Deities. They've fallen out of common knowledge now, but their presence is still here, among us and impacting nearly everything."

"Huh," Remus says. "I've never heard of that one."

"I'm not surprised," Star says, clear dismissal in his tone. Remus makes the executive decision to ignore it. Many people have tried to dismiss him; they all found out one way or another that nobody dismissed Remus except for Remus.

"What else is Penelope the ruler of?"

Star's eyes practically light up. "They are the Deity of Faith, Healing, Being Found, and New Beginnings. Some scriptures also inidicate they may have had a hand in the growing of commonly found medicinal plants, as well as healthy growth, though the scrolls are old and in many cases barely legible." Star pauses. "I did get to see one, once. At a very old library. It was...enchanting."

There's a lull, and Remus can see that Star is probably done talking unless Remus continues the conversation.

"So, what even is this thing?" Remus asks, poking at the glowing green.

"I call it a cast," Star says. "It is a combination of hardened bandages, different herbs to keep the wound clean and mitigate pain, and my own spellwork to ensure proper, enhanced healing."

"Fancy," Remus says.

"I suppose." Star preens.

"How long have I been here?" Remus asks. That's the important question. There are some time sensitive tasks he has to complete, as well as some pesky people following him that he needs to make sure can't find him. The longer he stays, the harder both of those things will be.

"A couple of days. I kept you asleep through the worst of the pain."

"Well," Remus says, "thanks for everything, but I have to go."

"What?" Star demands. "You can't even walk. Where are you going to go?"

"An adventure," Remus says. He hops up again, this time to Star's disbelieving, outraged face, and staggers toward the door. Star grabs his arm.

"No-"

"Let go of my arm, swampwitch," Remus cries, trying to wrench away, only succeeding in losing his footing and falling flat on his ass.

"Swamp-swampwitch?" Star sputters. His mouth forms a thin line, his face reddens, and his eyes begin to glow a faint, deep blue. "I am _not_ a swampwitch. I am a wizard." His voice drops dramatically, and Remus can feel the magic rolling off of him in waves, like slime coating his skin. " **I am the wizard that is healing your wounds, and I am the reason that you are not a corpse being picked over by woodland animals. You will stay with me until such a time that your leg has healed and you can walk, at which point you will leave my home and never return to it. Do you understand?** "

Remus nods mutely.

"Good." Star's eyes stop glowing, his skin goes back to its almost transulent paleness, the magical feel in the air disappears, and the sparks of magic zinging off of him begin to dissipate into the air. "I expect fair compensation from your family for having healed and put up with you, in addition to saving your life. Now, until you are in a state fit to make the journey back to your home to repay me for my kindness, you will stay here and mind. Your. Manners."

Star drags Remus up from the ground by the arm he still had a grip on and practically throws him into the bed.

"That was hot," Remus tells him, eyes wide. He's never seen somebody with magic like _that_ before, and to be so affected by Star's emotions is dangerous.

Remus is going to piss him off.

Star's face goes red again, but this in a flustered way, and he shoots away from Remus. "Ah, well, just. Behave yourself and stop trying to sabotage my efforts to ensure your recovery is swift." He tries to look stern, but the blush all over his face just makes him look like someone playing at teacher. Remus grins.

"Sure thing," he says. Star turns away, and Remus decides his stay here might be very fun after all. He goes to speak again, to ask after food (perhaps that jar of slime he'd had earlier. It looked spicy. Remus wants to know if it _is_ spicy.) but there's a knock on the door.

Star throws a hand out, indicating that Remus should stay quiet. "Who's at the door?" Remus asks anyway.

"I don't know. Some people find me to get help, some people find me for...less savory reasons. They could be here for any number of things." Star takes a hesitant step toward the door. Magic crackles at his fingertips again. Remus' eyes light up.

"I hope it's somebody who wants to gut you," he says, practically vibrating at the thought.

"Excuse me?" Star chokes, jolting to face him.

"Then you'll have to kill them," Remus says, still grinning. _With magic,_ he doesn't say, because he knows that it's not always wise to lay all your cards on the table.

Star sighs, shakes his head, and then turns back toward the door. "Stay there," he commands. Remus settles in to watch whatever show is about to go down. Star throws the door open.

"Hi," says the person on the other side. "I seem to have gotten lost in the woods. Could you help me?"

And, well, that's really not what Remus had been hoping for.

~~~~~

Groaning, Roman very nearly throws the trap back to the ground in frustration. This is the fourth trap he'd set for rabbits, and it was the fourth trap that he's opened this morning to find empty. Something is setting off all of the traps he's set to find food, but somehow managing to leave no food or trace of whatever it is behind. At this rate, he'll have to stop off in a town to _buy_ food, which is exactly the last thing he wants to do. More isolated towns like the few he'll find in and around Wudour Forest aren't known for being the kindest to travelers.

Drukha, from her spot near his bedroll, snorts at him. Though it's been two days since he left the castle, and one more day of traveling only through the forest, Drukha had yet to warm up to him at all. In fact, it rather seems as though she's becoming less trusting, unless she considers prancing away fromhim every time he approaches to tie his pack onto her saddle an appropriate greeting.

"Stubborn horse," he says, sending her a glare. She chomps at nothing, large teeth on full display. Roman chomps back and Drukha rears up, whinnying.

"Over-dramatic beast," he mutters, and Drukha turns her back to him. Would the Monarch have sent him with a hellsfoot for a companion? Surely not. Surely they wanted Roman to find their son as quickly as possible, and sending him with an animals overloaded with dark magic would do nothing to accomplish that goal. But it was the only true explanation Roman can think of. Sometimes it sounds like she's talking about him under her breath! That's not something a normal horse can do, but a hellsfoot? Well, it certainly isn't outside the realm of possibility.

Roman gathers up all of his supplies and makes quick work of getting Drukha ready for another day long trek into the forest. She seems just as excited about the notion of more trees and nothing but trees as Roman does. At least they'll be miserable together.

"It's what you deserve, cretin," Roman tells her and narrowly avoids a bite to his leg. "You'd think a horse would have better instincts than you do." She kicks one of her legs back and Roman makes a rude gesture back at her. He grabs the reins and tugs slightly, trying to urge her to keep heading East with him. Drukha snorts and shakes her head, mane flying all over the place.

"I'd just as soon leave you, too," Roman says. "But you were lent to me, and you must see this quest to its end, so _come on_." He digs his heels in and tugs, but Drukha stays right where she is.

It takes ten minute for Roman, panting and mud splattered, to admit he might have to find another way around this obstacle than going straight through.

"If I let go of the reins, will you at least follow me?" Roman demands. Drukha tosses her head but doesn't try to pull away. "You better not run, beast," Roman tells her. He drops the reins and moves ten paces east. After a moment of hesitation, Drukha begins walking forward.

Roman sighs. "Thank Basil." A branch somewhere above him creaks, and it sounds almost like a laugh. Can't he catch a break? First no relaxing after a hard job, then a horse that hates him, and now being mocked by trees? Could this trip be any more unfortunate?

As rain starts falling from the sky and Drukha tears a chunk out of the hood of Roman's coat, Roman violently curses Della and Basil, Goddess of unfortunate weather and God of animals respectively.

This is going to be one long trip.

Long trip may have been an understatement.

The rain had finally stopped, but now the ground is entirely mud and sopping wet plant matter - which doesn't even make sense with the amount that it rained! It shouldn't be this wet! Damp, sure, that would make sense, but Roman is in a _forest_ where there are _trees_ that catch a lot of the water! The ground should not be sucking them in like the quick sand pits in the Tharene Desert!

It feels like it's been hours since the rain had stopped, but checking his pocket watch reveals that it's actually only been about an hour and a half. Roman wants to scream with frustration. He is going to miss so much that he had been desperately looking forward to, and now there is this. This soul-sucking mud and an angry horse and his clothes are wet and he's uncomfortable and-

And once he finds this stupid, arrogant royal offspring, he is home free. He will never have to take another job again, and he'll be comfortable for the rest of his life.

He just needs to find this prince. He's good at evading the royal guard, but Roman isn't the royal guard. Roman has been trained by some of the best trackers on the continent, and there is no way the prince will be able to keep from leaving the traces someone trained by the Fae would look for.

Drukha whinnies and rears onto her hind legs, splattering Roman with mud.

"You know," he starts, but then stops. It's not like the horse will understand him or care. Damn horses and their stupid aversion to all things Fae-like.

Angry, tired, and in need of a break, Roman stops where he is, climbs a tree for a dry-ish spot to sit, and takes his lunch. There's an apple, and some meat left from the last trap he laid that had caught anything. He doesn't eat much; he'll try hunting again tonight, but if nothing comes of it, he'll be forced to stop at a town for food, and he will stave off that possibility as long as he can.

Then again, there are other kinds of traps one can lay. The kinds of traps with much bigger prey.

Whistling to himself, finding his mood rather suddenly lifted, Roman hops out of the tree. He doesn't try to pat Drukha, though he's feeling good enough now that he might have considered it. Instead, he just keeps whistling, a jaunty little tune that he heard in the first human village in Aerewadal that he lived in. It's been one of his favorite songs since he had heard it.

Roman takes a few things out of the saddle bag and quickly goes to work with his plan. An hour later, and Roman packs all of his supplies away and begins walking.

"Come along, Drukha," he says. He feels the side-eye the horse gives him, and he doesn't even care that she's being so wilfully suspicious of him. He just begins leading her farther east, and though it takes longer than it did the first time, Drukha follows.

Roman will follow the prince's path through the woods until the sun goes down, at which point he'll set his traps for game - both large and small. He'll be having freshly caught meat for breakfast tomorrow, one way or another.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on Tumblr, @mediocrity-at-best
> 
> If you have questions, ideas, or would like to request I story, I take all those things on Tumblr, so that would be the best place to go!


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